white warp butter weft
In Russian folklore, the phrase sheeps mug sheeps wool uttered aloud, keeps evil spirits from entering the house. Many Russians began as Ukrainians—exiled or annexed—as my family did, begin as Ukrainians.
A friend asked, what kind of alchemy do you want to emit? We were making ink. I didn’t know whether to use fireweed honey or the kind in the bear shaped jar. Its about magic, they said, the magic of materials and the spells spoken. So I gathered mahonia berries and smashed them with a pestle, added water and let it rot like cheese. I did the same with ochre, using the ink to write charms.
lucky clover butterfly wing, juniper berry rosemary sprig, black walnut from your mum’s backyard, rosehip foraged in Nakusp, jaw bone, dog paw, our pet chicken Nutmeg’s claws sitting there on a dessert plate horrible and feathered, a crystal your great-grandmother found in the river, the waxy bark of wild red willow, a Finnish bathing ritual repeated across generations, the white warp of a Scottish tartan, the sulfuric smell of hot springs, the way you warm up to me when my face gets sad, and, the way my face gives everything away, how you made fun of me when I gathered snail shells in the garden to bring inside, heavy snail shells that unfurled from hibernation on the bookshelf, sentimental eucalyptus hanging in the shower, palo santo, a cloth from Pakistan, oud, sandalwood, tobacco,
Everyone was an animist until the Church came along.
